Fourth Street Weekly
by Ersatz.Love
Summary: AU. Journalism and politics always go hand in hand, and when a rebellion begins to rise against King Ansem the Wise, it's only natural that a few good journalists would get caught up in the conflict...


The death of the king's eldest son was a tragedy that shook the kingdom to its very core.

It wasn't an innocent death, not one of plague or some unfortunate mishap, nor was it an honorable one in the least. Prince Ansem II, merely in his early thirties and with the guarantee of the crown upon his father's passing, evidently could not tolerate his father's rule any longer; some periodicals attributed it to a lust for power, while others thought it was the final act of a man consumed by madness, but whatever his motives were they were strong enough to bring about the deaths of two hundred fifty-seven men in a failed coup.

Having had the responsibility of arranging the letter stamps for his father's press, Even could still see that headline as vividly as if it were always right in front of him: _THE TRAGICK EVENTS IN RADIANT GARDEN, _in their largest, boldest font, _PERPETRATED BY THE CROWN PRINCE, UNREPENTINGLY ATTEMPTING TO TAKE THE LIFE OF HIS MAJESTY KING ANSEM THE WISE..._

Even also remembered being far more concerned about how to properly spell 'perpetrated,' and how ridiculous it was for headlines to ever have to be so long. Of course, it was the trend of the time, and fifteen years later it was still so, but as longer titles made his job more difficult he grew to hate them. To adolescent Even, distinguishing between the lowercase 's' and lowercase 'f' was far more important than the death of someone he didn't even know, but news was news—and news made sure he didn't go to bed hungry; to that extent, the death of the prince could only be a good thing, even if he knew better than to suggest so out loud.

But the politics that spurred Ansem II to lead two hundred men into the castle for the sole purpose of assassinating the king was not something a boy could properly wrap his head around. The bloodbath that resulted was also beyond him (since he was used to hearing greater death tolls around wintertime, or when another wave of smallpox ravaged some hamlet or another), but it was a scene unlike any other; one hundred fifty-four of Ansem II's small army lay dead, alongside fifty-seven royal guards, in a crimson trail of bodies that stretched from one end of the wide hall to the other. The rebels never made it to the king's sleeping chambers; outnumbered by imperial soldiers, the remaining force, including Ansem II himself, surrendered—only to be put to the guillotine eight days later.

Ansem II, too, met his end at that undiscriminating blade.

_The greater Unhappyness, most baffling,_ wrote one rival weekly, _is that His Majesty did not pardon His own Sonne, but had Him slain as any War Crimynal would be; though lamentable in the highest Degree, such an Act proves that our Great King is committ'd more to Justice than to any misguid'd Partiality a Father's Love for His Sonne might beget._

It was a story that stayed in the news for _years._ The gossip magazines especially capitalized on every detail and rumor that emerged as the matter was investigated, and the censorship and shutting-down of several of these publications only seemed to stoke the flames of discussion. Most fascinating of these topics was the fact that King Ansem's second son, Xehanort (so named after the king's brother and most trusted advisor), simply up and vanished mere days after his brother's execution.

_Vanished._

Fifteen years without a single sighting, and no one could say for sure what had happened to him.

It was no secret that Xehanort looked up to his older brother, that he passionately pleaded for his brother's release in spite of all that had happened, and so the speculation that resulted was to no one's surprise; that sympathy for his brother's treasonous ideals brought him to his demise as well, that he had secretly been assassinated or executed or committed suicide, or even that he walked away from the crown purely to spite his father—it was all the trashier periodicals wanted to print. That, and conspiracy theories that were still abuzz even in the present, what with increased crime rates and political tension and all.

Well, Even would have none of that.

Ansem II's death was fifteen years ago. Xehanort's disappearance was fifteen years ago. Prince Terra, then only a few years old, was next in line, so the royal bloodline was not and never was in jeopardy. It was not news, it was _history,_ and history did not belong in a _news_paper.

Or so he wrote after enough people wrote in to complain.

"Ienzo, _where_ is the new ink?"

There were a few other things that didn't belong in a newspaper, Even might argue, such as the double-sided page of snake oil advertisements that promised to do everything from curing blindness to restoring a man's sexual prowess long after he'd lost his right to ever so much as look at a lady anymore. This was only made more vexing by the fact that there _were_ fascinating new cures for certain illnesses, backed by _scientific research,_ but such discoveries were lost on their increasingly conservative kingdom; nevertheless, Even couldn't complain, because such advertisements kept the paper afloat and therefore made sure neither he nor Ienzo went to bed hungry.

What _did_ belong in a newspaper was _ink,_ and his apprentice was currently making that very difficult.

"Ienzo!"

"Here," the meeker voice replied, after an eternity of rustling papers and opening and closing drawers. Even tore into the recently-delivered case of ink the moment it hit the table, rolling its oily contents over the waiting letter stamps before setting the next sheet of paper, and Ienzo, barely seventeen and still indentured for eight more years, took over the mundane duty of inking the stamps; he didn't yet have the eyes for spotting errors in the actual print as Even did, but quick-learner that he was, he would get there soon enough. For a few minutes they worked in silence, concentrating on scanning for errors in the print, in the spacing, formatting—Even scrunched his nose at the observation that the new ink was noticeably more blue than the old, resulting in one page being particolored—until they settled into a rhythm and left the work to second nature.

"I think," the younger man finally voiced, "perhaps we should consider a section for opinions."

"Don't be absurd." Even paused to squint irritatedly at a marginally faded letter. "However much loose talk might sell, we will _not_ sacrifice our integrity for the sake of a greater audience. Especially if that audience is composed of nothing but ignorant clods! Could you imagine_—_"

"Yes, but the journal itself is...thinning." Blue eyes glanced sidelong to the stacks of completed copies on the far table; each stack held the same number of copies as the week before, but was noticeably shorter, despite allotting for more advertisements. "And I worry that our clientage will as well, at this rate. Would a little bit of padding really hurt, sir?"

"It would. Our reputation does not make us immune to censorship, boy. If anything, it makes us more vulnerable." His voice dropped a little; the small space tended to amplify his natural loudness. "Educated whispers are more dangerous than boisterous gossip."

Ienzo didn't argue any further. He felt the inclination, sure, and that much showed on his expression, lips in a flat line and jaw tightening for a moment like Even's voice had struck a nerve—but it was a moot point, and he didn't need his superior in a bad mood this early in the day. The change of topic came a few minutes later, long enough for Even to think he'd won the argument and, hopefully, not respond _too _negatively to the topic in question.

"We could add a section on boxing."

Even had a particular way of rolling his eyes that seemed to involve his _entire body,_ and when he did this Ienzo instinctively knew to prepare for a lecture he had very much been wishing to avoid.

_"Boxing,"_ the master repeated with a sneer, drenching the word in disdain; Ienzo managed to restrain the groan that said _oh boy, here we go_, opting instead to sigh through his nose and concentrate more on the letter stamps. There was no stopping Even now.

"You're _obsessed._"

"I am _not_ obsess_—_"

"You are," Even interrupted, "and I am _sincerely_ perplexed as to why such a barbaric 'sport' entertains you so. I thought I would have introduced you to more intellectual pursuits, but you _insist_ on occupying yourself with pugilism. I do not _understand—_"

"It's popular," Ienzo half-heartedly said in his defense. "Popular enough that even some aristocrats enjoy it. A good pugilist draws in just as much fortune as any nobleman, you know, and there are plenty of people willing to shell out a bit of munny to know who was victorious in the latest bout..."

Unexpectedly, Even paused.

"Who _did_ win the latest bout?"

"Who do you think?" Ienzo dropped everything to answer that question, eyes going wide and glazing over with infatuation. "Aeleus won, of course! I only wish I had been there to see it! Mognet Weekly said he nearly _killed_ his opponent in the fifth round with a hook—his right hook is _legendary,_ you know—and they really, really thought he'd_—_"

"Obsessed," Even nodded, and once Ienzo came out of his trance, "we will _never_ cover that."

Before the apprentice could get in another word, there came a heavy rapping at the door that scared the daylights out of both of them. Even's eyes flicked up towards the clock hanging on the wall, and, noting the time, he immediately knew who it was before he even made a move for the door; Ienzo was already ahead of him, knowing that the insufferable knocking wasn't going to stop until somebody answered.

"Even!"

The perpetrator's fist stopped inches away from Ienzo's face once the apprentice swung the door open, and as was routine, it was the visitor, not Ienzo, who flinched back in surprise.

"...Ienzo!"

"Myde."

"Myde," Even greeted a second later, and his gaze went straight from the young man's innocent-on-the-verge-of-mentally-retarded grin to the plain brown parcel he was carrying under his arm. "Reliable as ever!"

"Well, naturally." Casting a glance over his shoulder for safety's sake, Myde casually handed the parcel to the older printer and proceeded to lean against the doorframe when Even went to unwrap it. "You guys are looking lively."

Ienzo didn't answer, but looked on at Even's antics instead; both apprentice and master were excited about the delivery, sure, but Even always went about opening the thing like a child at Christmastime. It was kind of horrifying.

"Why don't you come in?" The apprentice stepped aside, realizing that the longer their door stayed open, the more suspicious Myde's visit would look—or so paranoia would lead him to think. The blond's eyebrows rose and his grin widened, and he took a moment to smooth out his pea coat before accepting the invitation with a muttered thanks and letting the door shut behind him. Ienzo trotted off to the kitchen afterwards; though there wasn't an abundance of food in their little apartment-turned-office, he still felt compelled by a sense of decorum to find something to offer their guest.

"Did you hear about the fight?"

Myde had a penchant for arousing peoples' enthusiasm, and he always knew which buttons to press with Ienzo. His reward was a resounding _**yes**__—__**!**_

_"No."_

Likewise, Even had a penchant for taking that enthusiasm and obliterating it. Or maybe he just kind of siphoned it into his own jubilation; it certainly seemed difficult for him to hold any semblance of cynicism when he was gushing over the thick, leather-bound journals he was pulling from the remnants of the wrapping paper.

"Have I told you that you are a godsend, Myde? Look at this! Look!" He held one open in one hand, long fingers spreading the pages and his middle tapping at one of the articles within. "I've known all along that the phlogiston theory is nonsense, and here it is—they've given it the _coup de grâce! _Could you believe they still teach it here in the universities? It'll be years before this kingdom catches up to King Mickey's. Decades, even. Perhaps not in my lifetime."

Myde said everything with a broad shrug that indicated he was completely uneducated on such matters, and Even scoffed in turn.

"Sit down, you look like an idiot."

"Take your coat off and stay a while," Ienzo offered upon his return, and dropped an armful of different fruits onto the table at which Myde would sit if he were so inclined. But he wasn't inclined, seeming more content to lean on things than to actually relax, and he glanced over the meager offering before shaking his head.

"Not today, guys, I'm on duty." He picked up an apple, eyed it, and idly started to polish it with his sleeve, pointedly ignoring Ienzo's puzzled look. "You haven't noticed yet!"

Both printers paused to look at him skeptically, but Even spotted it first.

"You've been promoted."

"You have?" Ienzo finally noticed the second bar on the insignia decorating Myde's pea coat, and awe briefly crossed his features. "Congratulations."

"Yep! It's Petty Officer _Second _Class now. Pretty sexy, am I right?"

"But you're not on duty today."

That statement, innocent as it was, brought an uneasy silence over the three of them that Ienzo was not expecting. The silence directly followed the harsh thud of the apple dropping right out of Myde's hand and onto the floor, and for a long moment the sailor's hand remained raised, as if he hadn't noticed the apple disappearing from it. Ienzo stayed frozen, too, struck by the fear that he'd said something horribly wrong—it was clear that he had, but he couldn't place what—and it alarmed him all the more when Even failed to speak up about it; he could hear the master's rustling, knew that he was staring at Myde as well, but either he didn't know what had sent the sailor into this sort of shock, or he did, and had fallen victim to it as well.

Then, slowly, Myde knelt to pick the apple up, and rose again with an uneasy smile.

"I'm usually not," he managed after clearing his throat, "Not on Wednesdays, no. But, uh, I'm covering for the lieutenant...hey, is that a banana? I'm taking that."

"I'm sorry," Ienzo stammered, freed from the spell by the inane nonsequitor. "I didn't mean to imply..."

What didn't he mean to imply?

"No worries! I should _really_ get back to my post, though." Myde slipped back into his carefree persona effortlessly, flashing a more natural smile at the apprentice and then to Even; the latter he pointed at with the banana he'd claimed. "Thanks again."

"It's nothing." Even made the _weirdest_ face at the banana, looking like he had a reason to object to its very existence, but whatever it was he lost it after a moment and shook his head instead. "We owe you our thanks as well. You go out of your way for us, at the risk of getting court martialed..."

"Oh, there're plenty of things I can get court martialed for."

Silence.

"I mean, worse things. Don't worry about it! Really!"

"You don't like bananas, either."

Another silence, and Ienzo began to regret making that observation, too. Comprehension flickered across Even's features, and hesitation across Myde's. The sailor tucked the offending fruit into a coat pocket and sidestepped towards the door.

"Well, um, peoples' tastes change, you know..."

"Aren't you _allergic?_" Even asked.

"Woops, look at the time, I'm totally late. Bye guys!"

He left just as conspicuously as he had arrived, letting the door shut on all the printers' questions. Alone, neither of them voiced those questions out loud; they merely asked each other with the same disconcerted look.

_

* * *

_

"Finished!"

Ienzo tied the knot on the last bundle of completed newspapers, and proceeded to collapse back into his chair, relieved. The wall-clock had last struck nine, but it had been quite a while since then, as his stomach so urgently reminded him; the pot of stew hanging over the fireplace was starting to fill the whole room with the aroma of tender beef, of herbs and carrots and more carrots and even more carrots that Even _insisted_ Ienzo must eat, and the stronger smell of flavoring-onions that would never grace either of their mouths. The apprentice turned a hopeful look on the pot, then to his master, who stooped by it with a stirring ladle, looking just as starved.

"Five more minutes," Even muttered, and after so viciously antagonizing Ienzo's impatience, he motioned for the boy to switch places with him. "But good, good! Right on schedule. Excellent work, Ienzo."

The younger man smiled at the compliment, but smiled more once he got within sipping range of supper. Even, meanwhile, attended to the stacks piled in the corner, checking each and every one over and pausing to re-tie a few knots that Ienzo had done sloppily; everything else seemed all right and ready to be shipped off the next day, so for the moment, they could both relax. Almost.

"Feel free to start without me," Even said as he bustled about, snatching up his hat and overcoat. He stopped, frowned, cast an odd look around the room_—_

"The table," Ienzo said, and Even's eyebrows shot up with an unspoken 'ah!' when he spotted his lantern exactly where Ienzo said it was. It sat beside a smaller stack of nicely-folded newspapers—an extra bunch printed specifically for the patrolmen stationed at Traverse Street, a few blocks down the way. Offering free papers to those patrolmen, or Claymores, as the townsfolk called them, was a tradition that Even inherited along with the shop; it was something started by his father after they'd brought justice to some vandals that very nearly ruined the family business, and despite it being a generation later and only a few of the original patrolmen involved in that case remained on the force, Even saw no reason not to continue the gesture.

"Right, then. I won't be long." With the lantern lit, Even took the bundle under his arm and started out the door.

Then he suddenly paused in the doorway, prompting Ienzo to glance up and look directly into the deathly serious glare that Even shot him.

_**"Eat your carrots."**_

And then Even was off. With no moon in the sky to light his path, he had to rely on the light of his lantern, and on the lights emanating from the windows of the few businesses still open. Unlike Traverse Street, none of the numbered roads in Third District had streetlamps; it was an unfortunate oversight on the government's part, and one that bothered the hell out of Even everytime he had to step out into cold, unwelcoming darkness, but someone of such grand stature rarely had to worry about harassment from unscrupulous individuals. In his mind, the most he had to worry about on such a short walk was unwittingly stepping in a mess left by someone's dog.

With springtime barely blooming, the nights were still fairly nippy, but there was no need to look out for ice. The cobblestone road, raised in the middle to form gutters for rainwater and refuse, was only slightly slick with dew, and the weather hadn't yet gotten warm enough for fog to be any issue. So unhindered, it was only about a five minute walk to the station—even less when Even was particularly hungry—and with such a delicious-smelling stew waiting for him he determined he'd make the trek in three; his hurried steps kept the time, three steps to a second as he walked along, until five yards later when his own rhythm was joined by another.

Two others.

It wasn't that Even expected to be alone, since there were yet workers from various businesses clocking out for the night or clocking in for a late shift, but he should have noticed a door closing or some conversation announcing the presence of the other travellers. Odd, but not alarming, at least not until he also took into account the fact that not only were they following the same path as him, but they were also keeping his pace.

He glanced behind him. They had no lanterns. His pace quickened. So did theirs. Perhaps out of annoyance than anything else, Even stopped and turned, raising his lantern high to shed some light on his unwanted company, but—as if _expecting_ he would do that—they had already casually slipped down an alley, escaping the light. The only thing the lantern revealed was that the alley was home to a small brewery, and Even recognized it as one which supposedly held amateur dog fights in its basement; it wasn't a stretch to deduce that the other individuals were spectators, and that it really wasn't any of his business. Nothing to worry about—just a distraction keeping him from a warm dinner. _Irritating._

Fortunately, there was nothing else to distract him along the way, and once he'd turned onto Traverse Street he expected no more trouble at all. Traverse Street's plentiful streetlamps were very effective in deterring muggers and petty thieves, and as the station was close to the intersection of Traverse and Fourth, he was within yelling distance of a professional police force; anyone idiotic enough to try a mugging _here_ was liable to be beaten half to death with a dozen nightsticks. The station's doors were always open, perhaps expressly for the purpose of allowing a dozen enthusiastic, nightstick-wielding Claymores to bear down on whatever unlucky criminals got too brazen, and in this case they let the Deputy Chief Constable spot Even coming from quite a ways away; he was a young man, blond and handsome, a few years Even's junior—remarkably young for his position, but he held the serious disposition of a man twice his age, and was undeniably good at his job. Glad to have some fresh reading material to get him through the night, the young officer met Even at the door.

"Constable." In lieu of being able to doff his hat, Even nodded in greeting, then set the lantern down for a moment to offer the bundle with both hands. The officer's eerie blue eyes lit up with appreciation as he accepted the gift, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips—tightly, as if a smile only graced them once a year. It was the same tight smile rarely worn by his day shift counterpart.

"Thanks." Informal, but adequate. "Come back tomorrow. Leon will want to thank you in person."

"It really isn't any trouble."

Cloud paused, fingering the knot on the bundle thoughtfully.

"Don't make him come over there."

Exactly how he managed to deliver any light-heartedness in such flat monotone was unknown to Even, but the printer chuckled anyway, and offered a more proper hat-tipping once his hands were free. That was all that needed to be said. Neither gentleman was much for conversation—Cloud never was, and Even was still thinking of stew—so they omitted the superfluous etiquette that social interaction usually required, exchanged their good nights, and parted company. Even didn't think to inform him about the strangers that followed him until he made it back to the intersection, but then, why would he? He had already determined that they weren't _following_ him, really—it was an innocent coincidence. But even so...it rattled him. He was reluctant to leave the protection of the last lamp on Traverse.

Then his stomach growled, and Even inwardly chastised himself for being so paranoid.

He still walked at a quicker pace than before, and couldn't resist looking over his shoulder now and then, compelled by the unnerving feeling of someone else's presence close by. He shone his light on the alley where the brewery was, and found it empty; the dull roar of human life behind those heavy cellar doors indicated he was probably right about the dog fights. He cursed aloud. There was no reason for him to be so rattled! On he walked, past the alley, past the baker's, the clocksmith's, the haberdashery_—_

_—_and then darkness descended in burlap form, rough cloth pulling against Even's face and turning tight around his throat, and the moment he opened his mouth to yell he felt a hand muffling him. He swung his lantern back blindly in hopes of catching his attacker in the head, but another hand grasped his wrist, twisted, and the lantern fell to the ground with a clatter. With the sisal tightening under his chin he brought both hands up to fight it, but a sudden surge of pain flooded his stomach, and he bowed inwards, knees buckling; the next blow hit the back of his head hard enough to make him drop bonelessly to the ground—stunned, but not out.

"Jeez, don't kill him!"

With blood rushing in his ears and nausea overwhelming his adrenaline, Even found it difficult to appreciate the mercy afforded him. Further struggling was strongly discouraged by the placement of a thin, cold blade pressed against his skin, just under his Adam's apple; so subdued, it was easy for his attacker to muscle him onto his back, and once he was supine that individual took it upon himself to sit with his knees on Even's upper arms, preventing movement and causing a great deal of pain that Even would have been protesting about if not for that aforementioned knife. As it was, they still had their hand over his mouth, and from the weight they put on it they seemed perfectly willing to break his jaw if he did try to scream.

The one holding him down said nothing. The other, who had so graciously decided to spare Even's life, hovered somewhere above them, pacing. From the sound of his voice he was still young, maybe late teens. Cocky. The scrape of metal and glass against the ground meant he'd probably just picked up the lantern; the teen held it up, and Even could barely see the light of it through the thick burlap.

"Friggin' tall, blond, looks like a woman. I'd say we got our man." The light grew close, settling off to the left of Even's head with a clank, and the boy swung a leg over Even's stomach to straddle him. Another blade prodded the skin just under the printer's chin, forcing his head back, and then went away.

"Well, let's ask just to be safe. You go by Even?"

Even's mind was swimming. What were the consequences of giving them any information? Would it compromise Ienzo's safety? He couldn't. They might still kill him. What could they _want?_

"Hey." All those concerns were silenced with a slight push of the blade; it dug into his skin, startling a whine out of Even—it only made a glancing wound like a papercut, but it might have been the only warning they'd give him. "I asked you a question. Are you Even?"

Breathing hard in panic, Even made a strangled sound, swallowed, and nodded his head.

"You publish the _Fourth Street Weekly_?"

He nodded again. The boy sniggered.

"Alright, _Even, _let's get a few things straight." The boy adjusted his seat, putting more weight down on Even's stomach, which did nothing to ease the nausea. "We don't want your hard-earned munny, so relax. What we want,"

He leaned forward, propping himself up by his elbows on Even's chest,

"Is a little cooperation. The more you cooperate, the less likely my buddy will cut you open from ear to ear and leave your guts on Constable Strife's doorstep."

He leaned closer.

"The sooner we come to a mutual understanding, the sooner you can go home to your nice, hot pot of stew. You wouldn't want Ienzo to worry, would you?"

Even took a breath.

"That's what I thought. Then you'll hear me out, _right~?_"

Even nodded.

"Good man! 'xactly what I expected from you, _Even._ Now, as your _brilliant mind_ has probably figured out by now, we know a lot more about you than you know about us. Kinda sad, for a journalist and all—but then, you never _wanted_ to be a journalist, did you?"

One by one, the teen started unbuttoning Even's overcoat. The knife kept Even still, but under the glow of the nearby lantern, the color of his flesh was paling in fear.

"You always wanted to be a," the boy paused, knowing full well the word was taboo, and his voice momentarily dropped to a hiss. "_Scientist._ That's a dirty word, isn't it? That's why you don't talk about it. That's why your daddy never let you talk about it. But you _wanted it, didn't you?_"

Even stayed still. The dress coat was next.

"You've wanted to be one for a long, long time—that's why you've got all those _academic journals_ stashed away in your apartment. That's why you ask Myde to smuggle you the latest issues every month. You wish your little weekly could be full of _scientific_ shit. You want to talk about _theories_ and _physics_ and _chemistry_ and all that. _But you can't._" He paused. "Because Ansem the Wise is a _bastard._ Isn't that right?"

Even stayed still.

"You really _hate him,_ don't you?"

He could be hanged for nodding.

The boy chuckled darkly, turned the knife on Even's waistcoat purely out of malice, and did the same to his shirt in the seconds after; he peeled away the soft, light cloth, turned the lantern to get a better look at the flesh beneath, and sat up straight.

"Don't get so uptight. We _like that._ And we know a guy that would _like you._" A clink, a squeak, and the lantern's flame flickered for a moment; the lantern's door was open. "We just want to help. That's why we're here. That's why you're going to help us."

Something burning. Something charred, heated, metal. Even could barely smell it through the cloth.

"Don't you want to be free? Don't you want to make people happy, save lives and all that shit? Or maybe you just want the fame. The respect. The _prestige._" Something sizzling, crackling. "We understand you."

Even felt the boy's hand on him then, what felt like smooth leather tracing something over his left breast. The hand on his mouth pressed harder, clenching his jaw so tight he _really thought it was going to break—_

"Do you still want to be a scientist?"

He couldn't even nod at that point, but the urgent sound he made seemed to count as a yes.

There was silence. When the boy spoke again, Even could practically _hear_ the smile in his voice.

"Good man."

Then indescribable pain pierced his chest where the boy's fingers were before, white-hot heat searing his skin with a repulsive sizzle; Even screamed against his captor's hand, thrashed against his weight, dug his nails into the grooves of the cobblestone_—_he could feel it pressing deeper, burning, charring, melting, piercing, like it was going to bore straight through to his heart_—_oh gods, he was going to _die—_!

But it seemed longer than it really was. The agony persisted even after the brand was lifted away, fading slowly, too slowly, so that every second seemed like an eternity of anguish all its own—but it was temporary. Only temporary. Through it all, they stayed with him, muffling, restraining—and it was only once Even stopped struggling that they let up in the slightest. They were almost gentle afterwards, mockingly so, but that blade was far from gentle.

"Then I _know_ you won't tell Strife about this. 'Cause, you know, assault is one thing..." With all the nonchalance in the world, the boy started redressing him, acting like the shirt and waistcoat were still salvageable. "I don't think I have to tell you what he'd do if he found all that brainy porn under your bed."

_Does that make this right?_, Even wanted to say. _Does that make me worse than you?_

"Relax." The pressure on his stomach lifted once the last button on his overcoat found its hole. "You're one of us now."

The door to the lantern closed, relatched.

"Welcome to the Organization."

The same burning hot something glanced Even's fingertips, but he dropped it with a cry before it could singe his fingers too much. The weight on his arms lifted, slowly, as if the boy's partner was wary of a counterattack. Even made no such attempt, refraining from movement so that he wouldn't provoke his attackers in any way, and only lifted his head a little once the blade was no longer near his throat. He didn't call for help once the other captor let go of his jaw, didn't try to pull off the burlap to catch a look at his attackers' faces, even when their retreating footsteps told him the whole thing was over. For all intents and purposes, he was pretending to be dead.

"Go on home," the boy called to him. "Ienzo's waiting."

When Even finally took off his blind, there was no one in sight. For a short while he lay breathing, panting, trying to wrap his mind around everything that had just happened. Part of him urged to run to the police station right away and report everything that he could; another part insisted he should sleep on it, that he should flee to the safety of home and locked doors. He couldn't think straight either way. He'd have to account for his torn clothes, for the shallow slit on his throat that could have ended him if it were a little deeper, and...

At least two very, very dangerous people that knew of his treason.

His fingers brushed metal again, this time the cool length of a handle that hadn't touched the lantern's flame. He picked it up carefully, turned the still-glowing symbol towards him, and stared, puzzled, at what he thought to be King Ansem's royal crest: a stylized heart, ending in a cross of three points. He set it aside and began unbuttoning all his coats again, pulled his shirt away_—_just to make sure_—_

On his chest, angry red and black and blistering, was the very same mark: inverted.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading all the way down to here! You're a real trooper! I hope you've enjoyed it so far - if not, feel free to leave a critique. Be scathing! I could use a little guidance. I appreciate it greatly. As a disclaimer of sorts, though: No, I'm not a history buff. I'm not aiming for chronological perfection in the least. I only intend to hit on the _feeling_ of an older time period, so I'm pulling in things from all different years, with a general ballpark of early 1700s to mid-1800s; that's a huge period of time, and there was a great deal of social/cultural progression all over the world, sure...in real life. But this is fanfiction for a game with anthropomorphic, talking animals, where science is dictated by the metaphysical notion that the heart is the seat of all emotions, and where you can summon elephants with hats that use their ears to fly and squirt an infinite amount of water at enemies with their trunks. I think I can smudge the time period a wee bit. :3 Stay tuned for chapter two!


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